


Soap

by verbaepulchellae



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bathing, F/M, Future Fic, Post Season 3, Semi-established relationship, Slow Burn, Snarky sass, Unresolved Sexual Tension, hammam style showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps because of the late hour, or the heat limiting most duties to half day shifts, the hammam is surprisingly empty when they reach it, their voices going hushed in the echoing room. Clarke realizes as she glances at Bellamy that they’ve never been entirely alone here together. They’ve rinsed off here together before, but that’s easier when they’re surrounded by their friends: Bellamy distracted by Brian snapping a towel at him and Jasper splashing everyone in cold water. Clarke tends to sit with Raven, stretching their legs out on the warmed metal after they’ve scrubbed down and enjoying the steam and hubbub of Arkadians around them.</p>
<p>Bellamy falters as he seems to realize the intimacy of it, the quiet, half lit room that smells of clean, light soap and the soft drip of water into wooden and metal buckets alike, the lap of it in the troughs.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>--</p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="center">
    <p><br/>Winner of Best Hurt/Comfort Oneshot for Bellarke Fanfiction Awards 2016</p>
  </div>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Soap

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> This entirely thanks to Chill Chat not having any chill about Bellarke season 4 hopes and dreams, so this is dedicated to you wonderful assholes.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, frustrated. “Can you just-”

“I’m fine,” Bellamy interrupts her, shifting out from under her hands, antsy in a way he never is except when he’s in pain. Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead and Clarke takes a deep breath to calm the heat induced frustration. Even the shade of the tree she’s crouching under next to Bellamy feels oppressively hot, the humid air heavy and the cicadas buzzing sounds half hearted.

“If you’d just let me look-” Clarke starts, letting her voice go soft and persuasive.

“I said my shoulder’s fine, Clarke,” Bellamy snaps, dodging her touch again and standing up, brusque and grumpy as he slings his pack back onto his shoulder and Clarke watches unimpressed as he winces, then glares at her. “Can we move?”

She’d made them stop at Bellamy’s hissed breath, take a break even though he wouldn’t admit that his shoulder has gotten worse through the day.

“Can you even walk?” Clarke snarks but snatches up the spare bag between them before Bellamy can and then hefts on her own pack. Bellamy rolls his eyes but there’s just the barest hint of gratitude in them when he looks at her and Clarke shakes her head at him. “I’m looking at your shoulder when we get back to camp. No excuses.”

“We get back before we get lost in these damn woods in the dark and you can do whatever the hell you want with me,” Bellamy tells her and then shoots her a guilty look as his words catch up with him. Clarke ignores it. They’re not talking about it, this tension between them, this quiet understanding that something’s going to happen, but not yet. Not yet.

It had almost. It had been easy, their natural dynamic of push and pull and support restored between them and the bleak reality that they might not survive another six months, for Clarke to let all the things she felt about Bellamy overwhelm her. She had caught his neck one night, a little desperate, a little lonely and still a little lost and pulled him down to her mouth, kissed him, pressed herself into his body because, god, she couldn’t die without letting Bellamy know that she loves him like this too.

He had kissed her back, after a moment, meeting the fierce biting of lips, hand cupping her neck, his breath hot when he’d opened his mouth under hers, but then… then he had pulled back, hands gentling her, touching her face like he was starving for her even as he kept her from following him up on her toes.

“No, Clarke,” he had whispered, voice rough, leaning his forehead against hers.

“What? Why not?” Clarke had begged, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, knuckles pressed to his collarbone and thumb touching the hollow of his throat. “Please, Bellamy. Please.”

Bellamy had grimaced and taken a full step back, caught her hands and kept her close but not close enough to distract him. “We will,” he had promised her. “Ok? Clarke, we will, but not like this. Not just because you think we’re going to die.”

“What if we do?”

“We won’t.” The certainty in his voice had made Clarke realize how little faith she actually had in their mission, their plan. She had looked up at Bellamy and tipped her head to the side, aching with all the time lost between them, aching with all the people they’ve lost along the way. “We’re going to survive this. And when we do this, it’s just going to be us, ok? But, I’m not… God, I’m not ready yet, Clarke. This is… I can’t fuck this up.”

She gets that. Lexa still waits for her in her sleep, sad eyes and pretty smile, and Finn sometimes wanders through her thoughts, no longer blaming her but reminding her of everything she’s run from. She loves Bellamy differently than how she loved Finn and Lexa, a safety and surety and vigor to it that she trusts. But if rushed, if used to cover up the healing that needs to come naturally from time and distance and growth, she knows it, too, could crumble between her grasping fingers.

So it’ll happen. Not yet, but soon she thinks. Everyday she feels a little bit lighter. Everyday Bellamy’s old cocky smile looks a little more natural. Knowing it’s coming makes it okay to sit down next to Bellamy at night and lean into his shoulder, intertwine their fingers, sometimes when they talk. They don’t shy away from touch, it’s always been part of who they are together, and Clarke likes that now the it’s as exciting as it is a source of comfort. These soft moments between them, they hold a certain intimacy that heightens her love for Bellamy, that soft warm glow in her chest that creeps through her whenever she looks at him.

Except, of course, when he’s being a dick about his health. It’s nice to be reminded that Bellamy is an idiot from time to time.

Whether it was from the extra weight, or their nights of sleeping on rough, rocky ground outside the bunker, or the general day to day anxiety of surviving, Bellamy’s shoulder’s gone wonky, so bad that Clarke can see it in the way he’s holding it, lifted up to relieve the pain of it and his head tilted away from it. It’s probably nothing more than a seized muscle, maybe a pinched nerve, but if Bellamy would just let her check, Clarke would feel so much better about it. That, and maybe he’d stop being an asshole, answering her in short, terse sentences, glaring at her when he catches her sympathetic face at his hissed breath when they have to clamber over large boulders.

“I didn’t say anything,” Clarke says dryly when Bellamy grunts in pain after vaulting himself over a large fallen log and he preemptively shoots her a look, another few hours into their trek.

“I can hear you thinking it,” Bellamy grumbles.

“Yeah, and I can hear you. ‘Man up, Bellamy. Just a fucking muscle, can’t hurt that bad.’” Clarke mimics, dropping her voice into a low husk that she’s actually quite proud of as far as Bellamy impressions go. “That about right?”

“...No,” Bellamy says.

“Uh-huh.” Clarke sits down on the log and puts her pack down pointedly as she digs through it for water. “Try pulling your arm across your chest,” she says without looking up at him. “Give the muscle a stretch.”

“I know, I know,” Bellamy grumbles but he puts his pack down with a sigh of relief and tries to roll his shoulder. Clarke ignores him for the most part but pulls his pack closer and goes through it, redistributing some of the heftier, heavier items they’d picked up from the old depot bunker into her bag. She can’t take all of it, but she’s pleased when she lifts Bellamy’s bag experimentally and it feels at least ten pounds lighter.

“Here,” Clarke hands him the water bottle as Bellamy sits tentatively down next to her and he takes a long gulp of water. They’ve made good time, the sun only just starting to sink into it’s pre-sunset golden glow and they can’t be more than forty-minutes from camp. “How’s it feel?”

“I’ll live,” Bellamy says and then rubs a hand over her knee, friendly and apologetic all at once. “How you doing?”

“Better than you,” Clarke teases him. “I did this for three months, remember?” It’s been a relief that after those first few painful encounters after her sojourn, after a week or so of settling back into her life with Bellamy and her mom and the others, this is something they can talk about. Whatever anger Bellamy had felt, he’d been true to his word and put it behind him. He can just listen, now, when Clarke talks about it, trying to process the sadness and fear that kept her moving nearly constantly for three long, cold months.

“Right, right, while I was sleeping on cushy Ark beds,” Bellamy ribs her. “You’re the badass out of the two of us, Clarke, how could I forget?”

“Well I’ll be here when you need a reminder,” Clarke laughs and the way Bellamy smiles about that, a little secretive and happy, dropping his gaze and touching her knee again makes Clarke smile down at the forest floor. She nudges his leg. “Keep going?” The sooner they get back to Arkadia, the sooner she can look at his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees with a slow sigh and pushes himself up. Clarke helps him get his pack on and then shoulders her own and they set off again. Bellamy’s still a little grumpy, clearly bothered by his shoulder but the idea of being home soon, of showers and getting clean after a long hot day seems to lift his mood somewhat.

To be fair, the word ‘shower’ is thrown around loosely these days. Arkadia doesn’t have running water, the systems too damaged and the lack of resources and time commitment for repairing and setting up new working pipes to a source of water makes the concept laughable at the moment. But they’ve made due.

Clarke loved showering, back on the Ark, but the alternative they’d set up in the time she’d been gone is almost better. It’s a play on the traditional Turkish hammam complete with hot water from a lofted, metal cistern; during the summer, it heats naturally in the sun and during the winter they must have lit fires underneath it if the cleared earth and charcoal that Clarke has found there is anything to go by. They conserve water by filling buckets from the troughs along the wall they’ve set up and scrubbing down first with rough bristled brushes and washcloths, before dousing themselves and repeating. It’s a far cry from the Ark showers, but Clarke’s come to love it: the ritual of rubbing her skin pink and clean at the end of a long, tiring day relaxing and invigorating all at once.

Modesty is a conservatism of the past, so everyone shares the large bay they’ve allocated as their hammam, and it fills with chatter and cheery, echoing noise as people come in from work. Most people strip down completely, but of a few of the shyer ones keep on loose clothing or wraps around their chest or waists.

When Clarke and Bellamy make it back to camp, the sun is down and the heavy air has cooled somewhat. With the boisterous, happy noise coming from the mess tent,Clarke guesses it’s well into dinner time. She’s half tempted to go eat as she is, dirty and sweaty and exhausted, but she knows plates will have been put aside for her and Bellamy and it will hold. Beside, the noise and volume of people feels like too much after the easy, comfortable companionship she and Bellamy have shared the past two days.

Besides, the novelty of getting to be clean whenever she wants is still exciting after three months of forcing herself into ice cold rivers when the dirt on her skin got to be more than she could stand. “Come on,” she urges Bellamy. “Let’s wash off and I’ll take a look at your shoulder before we eat.”

They drop off the supplies they’ve picked up for Raven, clunky metal objects that Clarke doesn’t understand but could find following Raven's rough little sketches of what to look for, before they head to the hammam, Clarke already itching under the feeling of drying sweat and dirt on her back and neck. Bellamy grins at her, recognizing her excitement for getting clean, boyish in his reflected enthusiasm.

“Look at you,” he chuckles, “You happy to be home?”

“Getting clean, getting fed, going to bed? I love it,” Clarke agrees and Bellamy hums in agreement. They may be fighting to save the entire world, but savoring these moments where there’s nothing more to do at the end of the day keeps the same. They can savor each other’s company and not feel guilty about indulging in each other.

Perhaps because of the late hour, or the heat limiting most duties to half day shifts, the hammam is surprisingly empty when they reach it, their voices going hushed in the echoing room. Clarke realizes as she glances at Bellamy that they’ve never been entirely alone here together. They’ve rinsed off here together before, but that’s easier when they’re surrounded by their friends: Bellamy distracted by Brian snapping a towel at him and Jasper splashing everyone in cold water. Clarke tends to sit with Raven, stretching their legs out on the warmed metal after they’ve scrubbed down and enjoying the steam and hubbub of Arkadians around them.

Bellamy falters as he seems to realize the intimacy of it, the quiet, half lit room that smells of clean, light soap and the soft drip of water into wooden and metal buckets alike, the lap of it in the troughs.

Clarke puts her head down and decides to ignore it. She pulls off her shirt and shimmies out of her pants, leaving her underwear on because honestly, she’s not that cruel. Bellamy follows suit and they don’t speak for a while, staying on the same side of the room but keeping a careful distance as they go through their ablutions. Clarke loses herself in the scrub of the brush against her legs and arms, high on her chest and on her back and only comes back to herself at Bellamy’s sharp, sudden breath.

Clarke looks up. Bellamy’s grimacing, face twisted in pain and he tries to use the brush in his right hand to work over his left arm and back and before Clarke knows what she’s doing she closes the distance between them.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she says softly, stilling Bellamy’s hand and taking the brush from him. “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine, Clarke,” Bellamy says, not meeting her eyes and reaching for the brush back but Clarke puts a firm hand on his chest.

“I seem to remember you telling me I could look at your shoulder once we got back to camp,” Clarke reminds him and Bellamy does look at her at that, half exasperated, half amused.

“Now?”

“Good a time as any,” Clarke says firmly and already pushing at Bellamy’s chest to guide him toward one of the stools. “Warmth, steam, all very good for muscle relaxation. Plus, I’m not letting you hurt yourself further just for the sake of being stubborn.” She points at the stool and waits.

“Alright, sure,” Bellamy says sounding a little helpless, but goes, sinks down on the stool. He hasn’t gotten to wash his back yet, the angle and twist of his body must have been too painful and Clarke pulls over the bucket of water and bar of soap he had been using. It’s one thing in theory, to be around Bellamy when he’s shirtless, to check him for injury, but to be this close to him with the purpose of bathing him does something funny to Clarke’s chest and stomach, and when Clarke touches him again, brushing her hand gently over his shoulder to let him know she’s there, it’s gentler and sweeter than intended.

Bellamy takes a slow breath and drops his head. “This okay?” Clarke asks, because the last thing she wants to do is push Bellamy when she’s trying to help him.

“Uh-huh,” Bellamy grunts and then leans a bit back into her touch. His back is hot under Clarke’s hand, skin a little gritty with sweat and dirt and Clarke runs her hand slowly down the length of Bellamy’s spine, feels the shiver go through him, the little twitch he gives when she reaches his lower back and he’s ticklish.

Clarke grabs the soap and gives his back a cursory pass with it before she lathers some onto the bristles of the brush and sets to work. She moves the brush in small firm circles across Bellamy’s shoulders and then down his sides and the long, corded muscles along his spine. Bellamy sighs under her hands and leans forward more to give her room to work. Clarke learns which spots of his skin turn golden brown under the soap and which remain speckled with dark freckles.

Clarke sets down the brush and grabs one of the washclothes, dunks it in Bellamy’s bucket of water and drags it down his back, wiping away the dry skin and dirt and sweat and soap and leaving his back glistening in the soft light faintly. Clarke can’t help but trail her fingers down after the washcloth. For all his bluster and leather jackets and gun callouses on his hands, Bellamy’s skin is soft over the strength of his back.

“That’s, uh. That’s nice,” Bellamy husks, barely loud enough for Clarke to hear and she smiles, gives his shoulder a squeeze and then picks up his bucket and sloshes some of the warm water down his back to get the remaining soap off.

“Can I do your hair for you?” She asks him, teasing her fingers through the snarls at the base of his neck, sweaty and heavy after the hike.

“Sure,” Bellamy agrees and sits a bit straighter, tips his head back so Clarke can pour water over his head. She cups her hand over his forehead gently to keep the water from getting in his eyes and face.

There’s communal shampoo, and Clarke lathers it up in her hands and then works it into Bellamy’s dark curls and into his scalp. Bellamy sighs audibly and leans back into her, trusting her to take his weight against her hips and Clarke leans into him to counterbalance. She can’t remember the last time she was so gentle in touching someone, can’t believe how relieving it is to touch Bellamy just for the sake of taking care of him, cleaning him up after a long day. For such a long time, her touch has only lead to death, but here Bellamy is, very much alive under her hands, and happy.

Clarke reaches around to cup Bellamy’s chin in her hand and tilts his head back again so she can pour water through his hair and squeeze out the shampoo. Bellamy’s eyes are closed as she looks down into his face, eyebrows soft and relaxed and her touch, mouth a little loose. His trust in her is so apparent, so freely given that Clarke’s heart aches with it and when his hair is soft and clean in her hands, Clarke can’t help but lean further into him, cross her arms across his chest, curling her hands around his shoulders and pull him back into her. She rests her cheek against his temple and takes a slow, deep breath, contented.

“Hey, Clarke,” Bellamy says softly and rubs a hand along her forearm, gives her elbow a squeeze.

“Hey,” she whispers and turns her head to kiss his cheekbone, lets her lips linger for a moment before she pulls back and gives him another squeeze before straightening. “How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“Huh,” Bellamy rasps, giving his head a little shake before tilting his head to look back up at her again, his wet hair plastered rediculously to his forehead and Clarke ruffles it up for him. “Still a little sore,” he admits.

“Yeah, figures,” Clarke says and presses her fingers into his shoulder. “Lean forward again, let me see if I can help.”

Bellamy straightens and Clarke works her thumbs into the muscle of Bellamy’s neck, working down his spine until Bellamy’ jerks, and she focuses there: digging into the thick, tight knot that’s warped his muscles. It’s a large and Clarke works her fingers and then the heel of her palm into it, works the muscles of his shoulder that surround it and his lower back as well until Bellamy actually groans and his head drops forward.

“Feel any better?” Clarke asks softly. She knows she hasn’t fixed it entirely- Bellamy needs to rest and stretch his back out before all the pain is gone, but when she slides her hands slowly up his back, Bellamy nods.

“A lot,” he admits. “Thank you.” He catches her hand as she reaches his shoulders and keeps it in his own. “Lemme return the favor?”

Clarke sits between Bellamy’s legs, closes her eyes against the overwhelmingly tender feeling of his fingers in her hair, working in the shampoo and combing through the tangles he finds. Clarke curls her hand around his calf and pets the coarse hair on his leg, just feels his skin under her palm knows that her eyes get a little misty at what she has with Bellamy- the trust, the understanding, the support.

She leans her head into his thigh, resting her cheek there and Bellamy doesn’t say anything, just drops his hand to the nape of her neck and works his thumb there, pressing into the muscles just to keep touching her.

Whether they have only the time the world has left, or years stretching into the future filled with happinesses Clarke hasn’t dared to imagine, she trusts Bellamy, trusts them, that they’ve got this. These moments between them, when Clarke is reminded what it is to love someone and all the facets love takes, that she knows that they aren’t just surviving. They’re living.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always so appreciated!! They brighten my day :)
> 
> I hang out on tumbler [here](http://verbam.tumblr.com) ! Come ~chill~


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